d-girls image by artist Tashina Suzuki

When I was a Creative Executive for the Big Comedy Director, two writers scammed their way into my office.  They said they were writers for The Simpsons, and since they were going to be on the Fox Lot anyway, would it be okay if they stopped in to introduce themselves? When they arrived they told me in fact they had never really written anything at all.  They had a bunch of treatments, ideas for movies, but hadn’t gotten around to writing any of them out.  They seemed like nice fellows, and they were funny, so I chatted with them for a while.  As is often the case, the conversation turned to me, and I told them stories from my childhood: how I had grown up on a farm in Massachusetts with no heat in our house and seven brothers and sisters, and how I was sure Henry the Black Sheep was out to get me as he had opened the front door to our big farmhouse one day and was making his way up the stairs to where I was cowering on the top bed of the bunk beds I shared with my little sister.  They agreed with me that it would have been hard to imagine my inauspicious beginnings could have led to a job in Hollywood, by way of New York City, and when they left the meeting they promised to send me a finished script so I could try and help them become real writers.

A few weeks later, I got a script from the two guys in the mail.  They had been faxing me treatments non-stop, and some of their ideas were hysterical – I liked Jack Astronaut the best, but I had been insisting they write a full script – there’s a big difference between good ideas and proper execution.  When I opened the script and started reading, it all felt eerily familiar.  It was a story about a screwed-up little farm girl who went to New York City to become a theater director and ended up in Hollywood pushing paper around for Big Wigs.  They had written a screenplay about my life.  I have to say, although it had its moments, it needed a lot of work.

READ ON tomorrow @ D-Girl Diary.